One Hundred Grand
by Nocturne in C Moll
Summary: Written for a challenge over at MoonlightAholics. "Josef probably kills every day."


**Beta:**The ever-awesome Barb (bank1115). She also supplied me with the name of a wine, since I'm not a connoisseur at all.

**Author's note:** This was written for a challenge over at MoonlightAholics.

For those wondering about updates to my other stories...my apologies, but my muse went on a sudden, extended vacation. I'm _hoping _to get my muse going on those again soon...

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One Hundred Grand **(or, **Josef Probably Kills Every Day**)**  
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It was just after midnight when Mick St. John darkened the door to his best friend's office.

"Ah, Mick!" Josef exclaimed with pleasure, "Just in time to join me in a little bubbly, my friend!" He waved him in and gestured to the empty armchair in front of his desk where he sat.

"Great," Mick said as he strode across the room and settled into the chair. "What are we celebrating?"

"Well," Josef said as he set two wine glasses in front of him on the desk and filled each halfway with '76 Penfolds Grand Hermitage, "if dead people were money, I think I finally made one hundred grand."

Mick froze as he took the proffered glass. "I beg your pardon?"

"I _think _I just killed my 100,000th person."

"Your _one hundred thousandth_ person," Mick repeated slowly, "…you _think_."

"Yeah—well, I can't be sure. I wasn't officially keeping count, and my memory's a little hazy, especially for the first hundred years or so—oh, and I blocked out the entire Victorian era, for obvious reasons. Oh, _and_ I can't remember most of the 60s and 70s—again, for obvious reasons." He pursed his lips and tapped a finger lazily on some papers as he looked off to the side, seemingly lost in some sort of recollection. Then he shook himself out of it. "But anyway, according to my estimations, it should be about 100,000 now."

Mick shook his head slowly. "You know, I once said to Beth that you probably killed every day, but I wasn't thinking _literally_!"

"Well, no, of course not—but I'd hate to think you would be so stupid as to exaggerate to a reporter."

Mick narrowed his eyes.

Josef ignored the look and frowned up at the ceiling in concentration. "Well, let's do the math, shall we? Let's see, I was born in 1599; it's 2009 now—so I'm 410, _but _I didn't start killing until I was turned…knock 26 years off of that…that's 384 years of killing…divide 100,000 by 384, and…okay, so I killed an average of 260 people per 365-day year—that's decidedly NOT every day!"

Mick threw his hands up in the air. "Great. Fine. I'm glad I was wrong about you, Josef," he said in a flat tone.

"Well, what are you getting so snippy about? I would think you'd be happy to know I don't kill a human every day!"

The younger vampire pressed his lips together.

"Oh, so you're going to be like that now, huh? Give me the silent treatment because I kill a lot more mortals than you? —You know very well I treat humans with the utmost respect, almost as much as you—until, of course, they _dis_respect _me_. Minus the occasional 'accident,' I _never_ kill humans senselessly—" he emphasized, then checked himself and muttered quickly, "—well, except twice on Sundays during a leap year…"

"—Um, excuse me?" Mick leaned forward with a perplexed little shake of his head.

The elder vampire shrugged and made a moue. "People were more superstitious back in the olden days, even vampires. —But naturally I made a point of killing anyone who tried to ward me off with garlic."

"Oh, of course."

They fell silent for several moments until Mick finally heaved a sigh. "—All right, Josef, who had the dubious honour of being the estimated number 100,000?"

Josef's lips spread in a slow grin. "You sure you really want to know?" He wagged a finger at Mick, "You're not going to like it!"

"Try me," Mick said, folding his arms. "You're right, I probably won't, but I sense you're just _dying_ to tell me, so go ahead."

"Well, if you insist—I'll tell you," Josef said evenly as he topped off his wine glass. He set the bottle back down gently and held his friend's gaze as he sighed. "You see, a certain blond was snooping around just a _little_ too much…"

Mick paled and went cold—or at least more than usual. "No…not…no, you wouldn't…"

"Yup!" Josef chugged back the rest of his wine and set his glass down with a loud, satisfied smack of his lips. "—Ben Talbot is dead at last."

"Wh—wait, what? _Talbot_?!" Mick exclaimed in relief, "But he—he's a brunette!"

Josef shrugged. "Not anymore! I dyed his hair blond before I killed him, just so I could say 'a certain blond' and freak you out. Man alive! you should have seen the look on your face! Priceless!" he hooted, "—I hope Jerry caught that on camera." He twisted in his seat and gave a big two thumbs-up to the security camera up in the corner of the ceiling. Then he turned back around to see his friend staring at him. "—What?"

"…You dyed a man's hair before you murdered him, _just_ to play a terrible practical joke on me?" Though Mick began slowly, his voice grew progressively louder.

The elder vampire tapped a finger thoughtfully on his lips. "You know, Talbot didn't seem too impressed either, come to think of it. And here I thought blonds had more fun. Oh well," he shrugged. "—More wine?" He held up the bottle.

"Huh. Imagine that," Mick said lightly. "—And _no_, I'm good. Thanks." He held his hand over the top of his glass.

Josef shrugged and poured some more wine for himself. "I tried to explain it to him, but you know how annoying it is when you have to tell people _why_ your jokes are funny. Some people just have no taste," he huffed and lifted the wine glass to his lips.

"Hmm!" Mick tilted his head in acknowledgement. Then he suddenly launched himself across the desk, grabbed his friend by the throat, and squeezed—hard.

"Mick—what—" Josef sputtered, flailing wildly and flinging his wine glass to the ground. "—Hey, my carpet! That's gonna leave a stain! What's the big idea?!"

"I'm going for a record too, Josef!!!" Mick grunted.


End file.
